


Upon a pale white horse

by Tashilover



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Death, Famine - Freeform, Horsemen, Pestilence, The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, War, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 17:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1950690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every generation they meet.</p><p> </p><p>My take on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!MJN crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon a pale white horse

When people talked about the apocalypse, they spoke of the heavens opening up and angels pouring out by the thousands, raining fire down upon the earth. They spoke of the dead rising from their graves, rotting and hungry, feasting on the flesh of the living as demons roamed the lands, striking down the innocent and sinful. Seas would boil, the skies would turn black from billions of locusts, and darkness would reign for hundreds of years.

Don't be so fucking cliche.

Not even War, who bathed, danced, and drank blood by the gallons, would ever inflict such an ending to this world. For one thing, they would be out of a _job_. They did not live in the minds of gods or angels, they lived in the minds of humans, and without them, they would cease to exist. The end of the world would be decided by the humans themselves, not by heaven or hell.

Pestilence could feel it, it was that time of the century again. He often wondered who decided when and where they should meet, as it certainly wasn't up to them. He suspected Death knew.

The meeting was going to happen, sooner or later, so Pestilence never made an effort to get there on time. He took his time that morning, sleeping in, eating breakfast, before getting dressed to head out. He stopped by at the local bakery to buy a small bag of his favourite pastries, getting four for the each of them, and an extra one for himself.

The girl at the register made the accident by touching him, brushing her hand against his palm as she gave him his change.

Usually simple little touches like that wouldn't have an effect. Pestilence bumped against too many shoulders, shook too many hands- he would have killed off more than half of the population of earth from accidental touches. But because today was... _today_ , his sensitivity was higher than usual.

The poor girl was going to have an awful week, suffering from headaches, stomach pains and diarrhea. She'll live.

A half hour later Pestilence arrived at his destination. It was too hot today for sports and other recreational activities so the football field and surrounding park was all but empty. There were a few others, young couples trying to make it work by sitting under the shade of a tree. They would soon leave, Pestilence knew, when they felt the sweat pouring down their backs.

War and Famine were already there, setting up at a picnic table. "Hello, you two," Pestilence said, walking up to them.

Every generation they choose different forms, different races and genders as their vessels. The whole point was to see the world from different eyes, to keep themselves from discriminating against those who would eventually face their wrath.

They had their preferences, of course.

Famine preferred women, as their kind usually were ones who bore the consequences of men's actions. They were the ones who starved themselves to feed their children, who hollowed their souls to endure their lives. She was already old, nearly ready for another cycle. Pestilence could sense her bitterness in life, heartbroken and gutted, but experienced and dangerous. In this life she showed pity to those she usually cut down without hesitation.

War liked irony. He laughed at the Greek images of him, the ones who depicted him as muscle-bound, tall, sword-welding god. His vessels were usually of those you wouldn't expect a blood-lusting individual to inhabit. Last time Pestilence saw him, his vessel was a disabled four year old boy, who had already experienced the cruelty of humanity against those who were different. War was older here, nearly thirty years of age, and surprisingly, not as blood-lustful as usual. In this life he was naive, and it was only a matter of time when such ignorance would be struck down.

War laughed at the sight of him. "Why do you always choose the good-looking vessels?"

Because nobody wanted to rub shoulders with an ugly, disgusting, old man. "I brought pastries," Pestilence said instead, placing the paper bag on the picnic bench.

Famine wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure I want to eat those."

"I didn't touch them. And I _do_ wash my hands, you know."

"I'll pass."

"More for me," War said gleefully, digging in. "Ooh, you got chocolate! Thank you, Pestilence."

Despite the heat, it was such a beautiful, clear day. By now the couple had already cleared out, leaving them alone. At moment, there was no sign of Death. He was always late.

"You need to slow down," Pestilence said. War thought he was talking to him, paused in his eating to look up, but Pestilence was directing his words to Famine. "You've got, what? Another ten years to go before you go through another cycle?"

"Less than that," Famine said. She poked at her breast. "This one is developing a lump. Why are you lecturing me? It's not as if you're a spring chicken yourself."

"I'm easily at least ten years younger than you. The next time we see you, you'll be in your late forties and we'll be in our teenage years."

" _Cool_ ," said War.

"There are no rules regarding our ages have to be similar," Famine huffed. "It's also not my fault I tend to live longer than the both of you."

"Hey, that London Fire was not my fault-"

" _Quiet, both of you_ ," War said suddenly, his tone harsh and flat. He wiped the chocolate off of his mouth, his expression serious. "Death has arrived."

In the car park, they watched in silence as a white van pulled in. The poor thing was gurgling and whistling loudly as steam erupted from within the bonnet. The van parked, wheezed out as the engine was turned off. The driver's door opened.

Death stumbled out, cursing. "Aw, no! C'mon, I fixed you yesterday!" He opened the bonnet, ducking away from the hot steam pouring out. Death lifted his head, saw everyone at the table and waved. "Hi! Do any of you have water I can use?"

Death never remembered them. It was one of his conditions he made for himself when he was reborn into a new vessel. When Pestilence asked why, Death said, "I don't know. I can't remember."

He would not remember until one of the others touched him. Last time it was Famine who touched him. This generation, it was Pestilence's turn.

Death trotted up to them, his face pinked from the heat. His skin nearly matched his red hair. "I'm sorry to interrupted your picnic, but do any of you have water I can use? I'm afraid my engine overheated."

"Certainly," said Pestilence, reaching over to grab one of the large bottles of water War had brought. "Here."

"Ah, thank you."

It would have been easy to do it there. As Death reached forward to grab the bottle, one of Pestilence's fingers could brush against his. He then would remember, and their meeting could venture on its way.

But for some strange reason, as Death gripped the bottle, Pestilence snatched his hand back before their fingers touched. From behind, he could feel War's and Famine's eyes grow wide.

Death thanked him again, then trotted back to his van.

"What the hell, Pestilence?" Famine hissed, punching him across the shoulder. "What are you trying to do?"

"I want to see what happens if no one touches him. Will he remember on his own?"

"I bet Pestilence is still upset about the last time," War said musingly.

The last vessel Death lived through was a thirty-five year old woman, pregnant with her fourth child. When Famine touched her, Death started crying, clutching her pregnant belly, feverishly shaking her head in denial.

"We need to have this meeting," Famine insisted. "You know that."

Pestilence sighed. "Yes, I know. I just wonder, if it was the other way around, would Death let us go on our merry way?"

Death was already pouring water into his overheated engine, stepping back when he saw Pestilence walking up to him. "Yes? Do you want the bottle back?"

"Yes, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

He held the bottle out for Pestilence to take. Pestilence stepped closer, and grabbed Death's wrist.

Death gasped and wretched his arm back, dropping the empty bottle on the ground. " _What the hell is your problem-_ oh."

His face shifted, from startled anger to mild horror. Death was older than all of them combined, and it took a few seconds for the memories to come back. "O-oh..." He said again, sadder this time. "That time of the century, huh?"

In that moment, despite everything, Pestilence wished he never touched him. Perhaps that's the reason why Death forgot: he's always hoping someone would leave him be.

"Yes," said Pestilence, motioning his head back to the others. "Come on, I brought pastries."


End file.
